


To Walk, To Saunter, To Fly

by headraline



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: I have no idea where to take the plot so please make suggestions, M/M, More characters to come, Other, Pole Dancing, aerial sports, aerialist crowley, and disaster gays, bookseller aziraphale, human!AU, more tags to come, pole-dad crowley will teach us body positivity and we're gonna like it, poles for days, the pole dance au no one asked for but that I'm still gonna write
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23245879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headraline/pseuds/headraline
Summary: Aziraphale nearly laughed when his friend Anathema suggested an aerial studio to get himself into shape a bit.“Can you imagine? Me, going to an aerial studio? It would take a miracle to get my bottom off the ground!”Apparently, miracles were more likely to come by than he thought.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 72





	1. Reach out and touch faith

**Author's Note:**

> WELP, WE'RE DOING THIS.  
> After all, there hasn't been a fandom I've written for that doesn't have an aerial or dance-related AU.  
> I've been hesitant to write a Good Omens AU because I'm not sure I can do it justice outside of canon, but welp, it was this or Aziraphale catching Crowley do some exotic-dancing for a temptation and we all know how that would have ended.
> 
> So instead we get wholesome aerial teacher Crowley teaching Aziraphale that anyone can do pole if they want to.  
> I happen to be a bit of an aerialist and I spent one year as an assistant instructor, so I can confirm: Aziraphale's mild amounts of pudge are not at all an obstacle.  
> You can look up Roz Mays or Emma Haslam as examples of plus-sized pole dancers that perform at high level.
> 
> Either way  
> Take my love.

Aziraphale had never been a particularly prideful man. He knew his limits and when not to push them, he didn’t lead an exceedingly extravagant life, content with his antique bookshop in Soho, with its extremely select clientele and even tighter circle of friends.

He was content with a quiet evening sitting on his favourite armchair with a book in his lap and some tea, or maybe cocoa on the table just beside it— some would say his lifestyle was a bit too sedentary, what with only ever going outside for groceries once a week and little more, but he didn’t feel like it was that big of an issue. Aziraphale would argue that he got plenty of exercise lifting boxes and creates of heavy, leather-bound and extremely precious books.

That argument was disproved when, as he was out with one of his friends, they saw the 19 bus about to leave the stop before they could reach it.

“Come on, I think we can still catch it!” Anathema had said, breaking into a sprint.

Aziraphale did his best to follow after her…

…and promptly collapsed mere metres from the bus stop.

Besides giving the young woman the scare of her life, Aziraphale discovered that day that lifting books did not, in fact, equate to a workout regimen and that he needed to get out more: apparently, the stale air of the shop did his lung capacity no favors, and neglecting the different muscle groups in his body could cause all sort of problems, from simple lower back pain to insomnia.

Well, that at least explained why he struggled to get more than 4 hours of sleep a night.

The doctor politely suggested that a steady workout regimen would also do wonders to control his cholesterol levels, considering he was pushing forty.

Aziraphale was grateful for the physician’s professionalism, which helped him _not_ to feel like a fat, old, stuffy twat. Well, not too much and not in so many words.

“You’re _not_ fat!” Anathema told him, almost aggressively, “You’re pleasantly plump. There’s nothing wrong with that!”

“That’s very kind of you, my dear, but the good doctor does have a point.” He sighed as they walked out of A&E. “I’m not exactly a spring chicken… and I can’t recall the last time I ever did something for myself.”

The closest thing would have been the fencing classes back when he went to Cambridge, and that was some twenty years ago.

_Gosh._

Anathema hummed in thought.

“You know… you could always come to the studio I go to.”

“Oh dear, I couldn’t possibly!” He objected immediately, cheeks dusting slightly in pink, “Can you imagine? Me, going to an aerial studio? It would take a miracle to get my bottom off the ground!”

Anathema had started going almost a year prior, not long after moving to the UK to follow her conservation work –such work was part of why she got along with Aziraphale so well. She met a guy, one of those whirlwind romance situations where two people who don’t really know each other just instantly click, and Newton –that was his name– was friends with one Madame Tracy, retired dominatrix and part-time burlesque entertainer.

When Anathema mentioned to her boyfriend finding herself struggling for a pastime she actually liked, he suggested aerial sports since Madame Tracy always spoke so highly of how fun and relaxing the atmosphere was.

She was now doing the same for Aziraphale.

“I promise you, you have nothing to feel embarrassed or inadequate about!” She insisted, “It’s a completely judgment-free zone. And hey, if it’s good for a lady in her fifties, it’s good for a man in his forties!”

“Oh, I don’t know…” the bookseller hesitated. He always did when faced with change— adapting to new things was not his strongest suit, one could easily tell by his choice of attire: he was always very distinguished, but his clothes wouldn’t have been out of place in a movie from the 50s.

“You know, my instructor turned forty-one recently.” Anathema pointed out, not one to give up easily. Then she clicked her fingers, as if a great idea just came to her: “Tell you what! Why don’t you come watch our end of the year show? We perform at the Jermyn Street theatre, I can get you a ticket no problem!”

Aziraphale tried resisting, but caved when his young friend mentioned that the proceedings of the show would go to charity— he already was a bit of a patron of the arts, what with his literary education, and would never pass up the chance to do some good _and_ enjoy a performance at the same time.

“It will be amazing, and you’ll see that you have nothing to be anxious about!”

She hugged him tightly, and Aziraphale wondered what exactly he’d gotten himself into.

Performance night came, and it was Newton who came to the bookshop to pick Aziraphale up: Anathema had been busy since morning with rehearsals, and he dutifully promised to take care of her friend –and bring her lunch, aerial sports tend to make one rather famished, but that had been around 2 pm.

“So, young Newt, are you excited to see Anathema perform?” Aziraphale asked while idly browsing the program –the show was called _“Paranoia”_ and it apparently centered on the outrageous, the renegade and the socially inappropriate, _‘a letting loose of everything people are taught to be wary of, unleashing the temptation to do and dare’_.

Newton kept his eyes on the road, but a completely smitten grin made its way on his lips.

“Well. She’s been working hard on the choreography… and any time I can see her dance is time well spent.” The younger man admitted with a blush, “Though she’d probably have my head for saying that.”

“Oh, I’m sure she would understand.”

While often objectified, aerial and exotic dancers did have a certain type of style, and some performances _were_ purposefully designed to draw lustful gazes. It wasn’t a crime to admit that they succeeded.

Plus, Newton was possibly the one person on the planet to be _more_ milquetoast than Aziraphale himself, it was rather obvious he didn’t mean it in a bad way.

Having been at the theatre during rehearsals in the afternoon, to bring Anathema her lunch and enjoy the break together, Newt knew his way around and escorted Aziraphale to their seats –surprisingly, Mr. Shadwell was also there.

Shadwell was a retired veteran, though he still made people call him Sergeant –no one could quite ever figure out what he was a Sergeant in, save for maybe Tracy herself, but she kept that information to herself– he had a few screws loose, evident in the way he sometimes lost grip on conversations and referred to his own wife as ‘Jezebel’, but he was devout to her in his own way and never missed her performance, on account of having to _“protect the scarlet woman with his own life if need be”_.

It was weird to watch to say the least, but the two seemed happy together and, despite the unusual pet names, if they could be called that, Tracy pretty much had Shadwell wrapped around her little finger.

The three barely had time to make small talk, as the lights dimmed not long after they took their seats.

The show was about to start and Aziraphale was, against his own predictions, rather excited to see it.

Anathema had been right— Aziraphale was loathe to admit she was about most things, but this time he couldn’t be mad: the performances were all great, from the beginners to the advanced, and there really were people of all body types and fitness level on stage that night.

Newton was of course the most enthusiastic supporter during Anathema’s[ routine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=axKNgc2QN-4), which might have ‘only’ been an intermediate level but it was still well executed and Aziraphale couldn’t even imagine being able to perform all those figures and holds, especially not on the spinning pole.

It took both him and Newton to contain Shadwell’s shouts during Tracy’s [performance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tlfeJct-S5M) instead; and Aziraphale had to admit, not only the Madame was in remarkable shape for her age she also had confidence in spades: she went as far as performing a strip-tease for the audience, though she was hiding a white two-piece under her already skimpy black one –it was really incredible how well concealed the undergarments were, Aziraphale gasped and covered his eyes before he realized that the lady was not, in fact, flashing a theatre full of people.

The tassels at nipple level were a bit much, but Tracy had always been hilariously outrageous, and according to Anathema it was part of her charm.

Despite his grumbling and sputtering, Sergeant Shadwell clapped and whistled just like a young soldier watching a pin-up in the forties, and it was oddly adorable.

Aziraphale watched the man with a smile and was willing to bet that, had the Scotsman had a rose, he would have thrown it on stage. It kind of hit in a lonely part of Aziraphale’s heart, the one that gnawed at him when he remembered what an utter disaster he had been in the few relationship he stumbled his way through in his life, but he quickly shook the thought out of his mind.

He was here for his friends, and he would not ruin Anathema’s thoughtful gesture with morose thoughts.

“The Aerial Eden Dance Studio thanks you for joining us tonight in this celebration of the wild and untamed.” The speaker on stage said, while two students climbed up and down the poles to clean them as they had done every time in-between performances, “And now, to close off the evening, please give a warm welcome to our Head instructor for the last performance of tonight!”

A figure in glittery, copper colored high-heels and a short white tunic walked on stage to take position in front of the static pole, and for a good thirty seconds Aziraphale could not figure out whether they were male or female.

The shoulder-length red hair tied in a low pony-tail and dark make-up suggested one thing, but the strong calves and narrow hips said another. There was also something slightly off-putting about the costume itself…

… _was that a glitter-covered crown of thorns?!_

Aziraphale’s unspoken question was answered when the music started and the words [_“Reach out and touch faith”_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1iNWygFEZd0) rung out.

The performer started dancing around the pole in brisk but sensual movements and Aziraphale was thoroughly thrown for a loop with how utterly blasphemous the whole thing was –living in Soho made him more open-minded than most, but he _had_ been raised by Catholic parents in the seventies, so there was a smidge of guilt trying to worm its way into his mind. Possibly because his first thought was that blasphemy had never looked so sexy.

Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus” went on to the first stance and the performer –Anathema’s infamous instructor– grabbed the pole in a bracket grip and just lifted both his legs in a wide V against their chest, seemingly without jumping or taking any sort of leaping start. Privately, Aziraphale conceded that it took a great deal of strength _and_ skill to deadlift one’s entire lower body and make it look like _levitating_ , and that strippers all over the world were dreadfully underappreciated.

He tried to follow the figures as the instructor hooked one leg around the pole to rest there for a moment before waving his way down –yes, his. The man was likely wearing a dance belt underneath the very tight white shorts, but there was only so much those could hide and, thanks to the front row seats Anathema so kindly got them, Aziraphale could definitely see that at least _one_ part of the pole dancer was very much male. Not that it stopped him from looking exquisitely androgynous as he wriggled his hips for the audience, right before dropping low and suspending himself in a grip that had Aziraphale questioning the laws of physics and gravity.

Anathema had shown him pictures and videos of her attempting the so-called “shoulder mount”, but seeing it done by a professional, as the performed _bounced_ on the figure several times over, well… it truly was something.

Aziraphale blinked, and missed the transition that sent the man from the pole to the floor in a perfect split, but it apparently was doable, as the redhead carried on weightlessly, offering to the front of the stage another view of his long legs before tumbling his way to a standing position and ripping the tunic off his chest.

The glittery sports bra did a rather good job at making the performer’s look even more confusing to the eye –after all, breasts were nothing more than muscle and fat tissue, and many dancers had a flatter chest than those who didn’t… ballet came to Aziraphale’s mind in particular, though his appreciation for the cleverness of the costume was more distant compared to his absolute awe for the performance altogether.

He was also very much captivated by the huge snake tattoo on the pole dancer’s right thigh, but that was something he didn’t need to consider just yet.

The redhead was climbing the spinning pole, once more looking as if he weighed nothing at all and was just having a jolly old time holding onto the hand supports on the 381 to Waterloo station; then he twisted the lower part of his body around the pole in a great big arc and let go of his top hand, grabbing instead the heel of his left foot.

Even just breaking the figure and returning to a sitting position looked incredibly impressive to Aziraphale. He watched the man body-wave his way around the pole and he felt the same thought cross his mind that Anathema mentioned having last year, when she first saw an aerialist performance:

_‘I wish I could do that too.’_

Then the performer slid one leg up the pole and the other down, resting against it in a perfect split, and Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat. As he spun around the pole in that magnificently shameless figure, the pole instructor just so happened to lock eyes with Aziraphale.

He didn’t lose the smile, and even tossed a wink in the bookseller’s direction.

Aziraphale tried to keep his blush under control and remind himself that it was simply what performers did.

He was too old to develop crushes at first sight, for goodness’ sake.

The second “reach out and touch faith” chorus came around, and the gesture the performer made heavily implied that “faith” was to be found somewhere between his legs. If asked, Aziraphale would have said he wouldn’t think it too far-fetched, at that point.

He was familiar with the term “heel-clap”, but it still made him gasp minutely to see one, and the so-called floorwork that came after was downright sinful— the irony didn’t escape him, and he allowed himself a smile at what a delightful bastard the performer seemed to be.

Floorwork, Anathema had explained to him, was a way to catch one’s breath and regain strength between the more elaborate figures, but how evident that was depended on how skilfully a dancer could move.

This particular dancer looked to be making love to the stage, to put it mildly.

He did some kind of frontflip on the floor that turned him chest up, heels firmly planted on the ground and hips moving in minute thrusts upwards, and Aziraphale had to discreetly cross his legs to avoid alerting his gentlemen friends of his… predicament.

The bookseller still felt a profound admiration for the acrobatic tricks the man on stage was performing, especially when he hung upside down, legs above him in a perfect split and holding onto the pole on upper arm strength alone, but the talent and control involved didn’t lessen the performer’s sex appeal one bit, especially when he just ‘dropped’ himself to tease the audience by inviting them to ‘pray’.

The redhead returned to the pole for the last few parts of the song, shaking his hips, twirling, dropping and coming back up with a sinuous grace well worthy of the animal tattooed on his thigh.

The very last spin found the man in front of the pole, reaching outwards with both hands just as the last invitation to “reach out and touch faith” signalled the end of the song.

Not even the last remnants of Aziraphale’s overzealous religious upbringing could be mad anymore: if one were to really think about it, Jesus did spend a lot of his time with reformed criminals and prostitutes, so, if anything, _He_ would have approved, and would have possibly had a good laugh as well.

A deafening applause and change of lights later, people were being wished a good evening and starting to file out of the theatre hall.

“There you are!!!” Anathema came running to hug Newton and give him a quick kiss, leaving a dark purple lipstick stamp on him, but she quickly hugged Aziraphale and a reluctant Mr. Shadwell too.

“Aye, aye, ya had yer fun, now unhand me witch!” the old vet said, which was basically code for “I’m happy to see you, you did well” –they were all more or less used to him.

Tracy gracefully took him away to turn in for the night, which was probably for the best, considering both of their ages, and Shadwell promptly started falling over himself between trying to ‘chastise’ her for being ‘indecorous’ and compliment her for her grace and prowess; while Anathema led Aziraphale and Newt to the bar instead.

“Come meet my teacher!”

Oh, dear. Aziraphale was in no way ready to face that sheer beauty up close –though the presence of a bar meant he could obtain some liquid courage rather quickly, so it was perhaps best to just play along and get it over with.

The pole dancer was sitting on a stool, still mostly in his costume, with just a black blazer to cover his glittery ensemble –the crown of thorns was gone, at least, though the jacket seemed to only make the whole look _more_ enticing, covering just barely down to mid-thigh and only buttoning from the navel down.

“Aziraphale, meet my pole-dad.” Anathema announced proudly, before turning to the man himself, “Crowley, meet my book-dad.”

The redhead –Crowley– tilted his head to look at Aziraphale and smirked. This close, Aziraphale could see his eyes were of the most peculiar honey color. Almost golden.

“So you’re the angel that Anathema has been badgering about starting pole, eh?”

It ripped a chuckle from Aziraphale before he could stop himself. “Oh not at all, Anathema is a dear and delightful friend, I’m just… unsure whether it’s for me or not.”

“Yeah nice try, I have her in my class twice a week, she’s a little witch.” Crowley sent a toothy smile at Anathema when she stuck her tongue out at him, but carried on: “You really have to be an angel to put up with her.”

“Um, well, I…”

Aziraphale was spared the awkwardness when the pole instructor tossed back the remainder of his drink and took a _look_ at him. It was the same look Anathema gave him whenever he made disparaging comments about himself.

“But to answer your question… it’s very simple to tell whether pole dance is for your or not.”

“It is?” the bookseller was equal parts curious and self-conscious.

One could fill their mouth with speeches about maturity, but _some_ body image issues were harder to let go of than others –which is why the pole dancer’s following words stunned him so:

“Sure is! Pole dance is for you if you _want it to be_.”

That… sounded way too simple. And, Aziraphale had to admit, more than a little intriguing.

“Really?” he asked, “There wouldn’t be any problems with my… mass?”

“Nope.” Crowley confirmed, “You simply build the strength to back it up.”

Now _that_ was a surprising answer –Aziraphale had been subconsciously expecting the athlete to say something about maybe shedding mass along the way, but the redhead didn’t mention losing weight, he went instead in the complete opposite direction: accommodating practice to the way one already was.

It was a very refreshing thought, and the first one to make him feel like there wasn’t anything wrong with him for being on the plump side of the spectrum.

He was getting more and more curious about it. At his side, Anathema giggled while ordering drinks for herself and Newt.

“So… how would one go about starting?”

Crowley smiled at him –it wasn’t the cheeky, mischievous grin he had on stage, it was something gentler and maybe a little proud.

“Well, if you want to start you can come on Tuesday evenings, we have the _discover pole_ classes, for all those who never did anything like it before.” He explained, gesturing to the bartender for another drink –which Aziraphale finally noticed was… orange juice. Right, alcohol after a workout sounded like a terrible idea. “I can assess your needs and steer you to a journey with the proper pacing.”

“You could? Oh, that would be wonderful!” Aziraphale felt himself relax; it was weirdly reassuring to have this complete stranger tell him he was good enough just as he was to start something as ambitious as aerial sports. Sure, Anathema often told him the same, but her words came from a place of love –this man had no reason to coddle him, especially considering how well-off his profession seemed to be already.

Crowley definitely wasn’t hard-pressed for more customers, not with the night’s rousing success already.

Newton spoke up unexpectedly:

“You know, Mr. Fell, if you wanted to take classes, I could drive you.” He said, removing the last bit of hesitation for him, “I already drive Ana, so if you guys have classes that line up, I have no problem taking an extra passenger in Dick Turpin.”

God bless him, that car was a rickety old thing, but a well-loved vehicle was worth more than a high-performance one to some. Aziraphale smiled to himself at the idea of having someone to chat with on the way to or back from class, the company making everything less daunting, when Anathema put the final nail in the coffin.

“The studio is five minutes away from Old Street station anyway.”

Within 20 minutes from his shop on the 55 bus, not to mention the Northern line.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and looked back at Crowley.

“Do you think I could come for a trial lesson next Tuesday?”

The performer shrugged one shoulder, hiding his smile behind the rim of his glass.

“It’s up to you, angel.” He reiterated, “If you want to, you can. Bookings are made online, anyone can.”

Aziraphale made a mental note to ask Anathema to walk him through the process.

“You know, I think I actually do want to.”

“Well, then. To new beginnings!” Crowley raised his glass of orange juice in a pretend toast, which made Aziraphale realise that he got so swept in the conversation that he forgot to order drinks, and had been talking the man’s ear off this whole time.

He promptly felt his earlier awkwardness return, especially when he tried to compliment him on his earlier performance and the work he did with his students— he should have done that first, really, instead of diving straight into “teach me!”, but it had been just so easy to ask Crowley the question he hadn’t dared ask himself… Crowley exuded an air of openness and acceptance that was still hard to come by, even in modern Soho.

Eventually, the pole instructor began visibly scratching at his make-up, and Aziraphale suggested that they all turn in for the night as well, so those who so graciously performed tonight could get their rest –he was more than a little flustered by the grateful smile coming from Crowley… they had only just met, and already the man looked at him like an act of basic human decency was the most kindness he’d ever received.

Tuesday rolled around, and young Newton was true to his promise: Anathema had Splits & Stretch class at roughly the same time the Discover Pole class was held, so they both turned up at the bookshop a few minutes before closing time.

The three spent some time talking and laughing before actually heading for the studio, but they still ended up being slightly early— Aziraphale could admit to a small case of nerves as they approached reception.

Anathema had indeed helped him figure out the online booking process, so the person at reception had his name and smiled at him.

“You’re here for Discover Pole?”

The young man had the most peculiar haircut Aziraphale had ever seen, tight, slightly frizzy dark curls standing up almost like rabbit ears; the surprise and confusion served well enough to distract him from his nerves as he nodded and confirmed his name.

"Hey there, bunny-rabbit!" Anathema called in a clearly affectionate teasing, "Splits and stretch tonight for me, I'm having Magda put me through the grinder."

"Oof, best of luck, sister."

The contortion teacher, Anathema explained as she showed Aziraphale towards the changing rooms, had a bit of a reputation as a drill sergeant –so much so that people sometimes took the second half of her name to call her Dagon, like Hell's mythical torturer.

The changing rooms were mixed, much to Aziraphale's chagrin, but the late hour meant not too many people around and the two young ladies already there and changing didn't seem to care that an older man was suddenly in the room— as if they trusted implicitly that anyone frequenting this particular establishment couldn't have nefarious intentions.

Considering all the horrible stereotypes people liked to make about the industry, it was quite ironic.

"Hey Pepper, hey Warlock! Stretching?"

Correction: one young lady and one possibly non-binary young person.

Both nodded at Anathema and high-fived her.

"Is he your book friend?" The dark haired girl asked,

"Does anyone _not_ know me as _'the book friend'_?" Aziraphale asked in fake exasperation before Anathema could confirm, "Yes dear, I'm here to _'Discover Pole'_ , as the brochure said."

"Oh cool!" The other student said excitedly, "Crowley is teaching that one this week. Not that Bea isn't good too, but she can get a bit... intense, for beginner classes."

"Oh good Heavens, I will definitely need to work my way up to that, the most intense thing I've done lately was clutch my metaphorical pearls while reading some of my favourite Wilde."

They all chuckled at that, while a few more people entered the changing rooms, and slowly Aziraphale started feeling more and more comfortable, enough to sit and talk with people 20 years his junior while in knee length cyclist shorts and a t-shirt.

Anathema had explained to him that with pole the amount of clothing one needed diminished the higher level they became, but for a first time his current attire was more than acceptable.

"You know, I like you." Warlock told him after a while, point blank.

"Why, thank you, dear."

"You haven't asked if my name is really Warlock."

Aziraphale's smile softened.

"Well, you haven't asked if _my_ name is really Aziraphale." He countered with a wink, "As an _Aziraphale Zachariah_ , I do believe I win every weird-name contest ever."

He knew all too well that wasn't what young Warlock meant, but it brought a smile to their face and that was all that mattered.

As the class immediately before his ended, a bunch more young students flooded the changing rooms to put their everyday clothes back on.

One or two Aziraphale could recognise from the recital, like the lean, blonde and cherub-faced boy who had actually performed to a horror-movie soundtrack with half his face painted to resemble a hellish monster.

"That was just what I needed!" He exclaimed in satisfaction, " _Now_ I can take a whole week of boring studying!"

"There's bruises under your ass, Adam." Another boy, taller and darker haired, deadpanned.

Adam just half-turned with a cheeky grin:

"Hasn't stopped me before!"

Aw, young love. Aziraphale tried and failed not to feel like a grandpa, but this really seemed to be a delightful environment for everyone involved.

His nerves only partly returned when the instructor's voice called out from the studio area:

"Alright, all the people for Discover Pole please come to studio 3!"

Discover Pole, as it turned out, was a small class, 6 students per lesson maximum, to give the teachers a chance to assess everyone properly and make the students feel followed and cared for.

It also took place as one of the last classes of the evening, so that the people just starting out would not feel too self-conscious thanks to the reduced amount of people.

Class was almost full tonight, and while Aziraphale was slightly disheartened to be the oldest one there, he was pleasantly surprised to see five people of five completely different body types all trying out this new thing.

No one looked at him funny, no one seemed to care –everyone was just excited to begin. The weirdest thing was probably the instructor himself, wearing a pair of small round sunglasses despite it being evening _and_ indoors.

No one asked, and Crowley didn’t mention it.

The instructor sauntered around the studio, barefoot, clad only in black short-shorts and a baggy black t-shirt that hung off one of his shoulders, concealing the well-toned muscle Aziraphale had admired a week prior.

"Hi, I'm Anthony Crowley and I will teach you how to fly around this thing." He said as a greeting, hands busy tying his copper hair up in a bun, "How is everyone? Good?"

There was a mostly unanimous murmur of "yes" and other affirmatives while the instructor selected a playlist on his mobile and hooked it to the speakers in the room.

"Any injuries I should know of? Backs, knees, joints?"

The class was silent.

"Very well, marvellous!" Anthony cooed, standing back up to watch the class as some upbeat, instrumental music filled the room at a medium volume, "Does anyone have any dancing or gymnastic background?"

Two hands came up.

Anthony continued:

"Does anyone have any other sports background? Martial arts, weightlifting and such?"

Tentatively, Aziraphale raised his hand and asked:

"Does fencing count?"

The instructor looked at him with a slightly surprised expression, but then grinned with a nod.

"It definitely does! It also explains the perfect posture." He commented, still grinning. “Alright, you two go to the pole on the left side, you two partner up on the right, and you take the middle pole.”

Crowley spoke respectively to the people who had gymnastics/dancing background, then to the two who didn’t, and then to Aziraphale, who apparently was a middle ground.

That was fine and not at all daunting, it was actually very flattering.

Oh who was he kidding, he was going to be a ball of nerves and he knew it.

Surprisingly… he wasn’t.

Anthony started them on a basic warm up, the familiar repetition of which helped Aziraphale focus more on the activity at hand rather than the eventuality of people judging him for being in his forties and joining an acrobatic dance class –jumping jacks, shoulder rolls and squats even brought back some muscle memory, even though he went out of breath much more easily than he used to when he was 20 and, as the kids put it nowadays, _head-to-toe shredded_.

Crowley caught his eye in the mirror, but spoke to the whole class:

“Remember to breathe, everyone, and to do it properly!” he called, exaggerating his own breath to show, “Expand your belly on the inhale, let it go on the exhale. The more you get used to it, the more oxygen your muscles will receive!”

It was encouraging to hear some of the things his old fencing master would say… Aziraphale found himself smiling through the exertion and even thinking he might not be terrible at this, eventually!

“Alright, everybody, partner up, we’re starting on the real fun now.”

Oh.

Oh, God.

With the obvious solution of the two complete beginners and the two not-beginners partnering amongst themselves, Crowley was going to step in as Aziraphale’s partner –he could see it happen in slow-motion, yep, there the instructor was, taking off his shirt and walking right towards him.

“Hullo, angel.” Up close, Aziraphale could see that Crowley had another snake tattoo, on the right side of his face just by the ear, which had previously been hidden by his hair. He briefly wondered if it was a ‘theme’ for the dancer, and his mind suddenly connected the Serpent with the dance school’s name. Very clever, especially considering how tantalizing it was, to watch the instructor offer them some not-quite-forbidden knowledge.

“Oh, um. Hello.” The irony of the nickname coming from the man with the Serpent tattoos was not lost on him.

“No need to look so nervous, I won’t rip your arms off, you know?”

His nervous laugh was probably not encouraging, but the answering chuckle did serve to calm him down slightly.

Crowley turned towards the front of the class and raised his voice slightly to address everyone:

“Alright, so what we will do is a few simple pull-ups, but since we’re only just starting, your buddy will be there to assist.” He started explaining, positioning himself behind the pole first to demonstrate. He lifted himself in a perfect pull-up without help, while explaining how to grasp the pole –hands just slightly above head level, one above the other, forearms close to the pole and chest almost touching it. “The goal is to lift _without_ jumping, no matter how tempting in would be to take a little leap to help things along…”

Aziraphale was mesmerized by how easily the man spoke while still keeping himself pulled up, a perfect vertical line suspended mid-air against the pole, until he bent one leg behind him, and then the other:

“Angel, would you mind stepping behind me and grab one of my ankles in each hand?”

He did not mind at all, but he did have to focus slightly on trying _not_ to think he was practically eye-level with the man’s tight posterior.

“Very good. It’s good practice in partner exercises or when you spot someone to make sure they’re ok with being touched.” Crowley explained, not moving at first, “Of course, sometimes touching is inevitable with pole, but asking before doing goes a long way.”

Aziraphale smiled softly to himself –Anathema was decidedly right about this place and the people in it.

Finally feeling Crowley’s ankles press ever so slightly on his hands, the bookseller refocused on the lesson.

“Now, as I lower myself, you’re gonna go down to a squat.” Aziraphale moved to follow, and followed up again on instinct when he felt Crowley ascend, “Very good, and when I go up, you come as well. Down, up. Down, up. The goal of this exercise is for you to feel my weight but never carry it, and for me to feel your support but never use it to slack off.”

There was something very poetic about that concept, but Aziraphale was concentrating far too much on understanding the mechanics of the exercise properly to actively gush about the attractive teacher and his way of saying things.

…huh. He was _actually_ concentrating on the exercise.

Crowley did a total of five pull-ups with Aziraphale holding his ankles and squatting behind him, then he hopped off the pole and clapped his hands twice:

“Alright, let’s do this! Five pull-ups per person, one series per hand!”

Which meant one set with the dominant hand in the higher position, and one set with the opposite in place.

Doing five pull-ups right-handed wasn’t so bad, but Aziraphale did find himself struggling with the left side and he felt Crowley actively pushing him up for the last two.

“I’m sorry—”

He wasn’t even halfway through his apology when the instructor stopped him.

“Not at all, you’re doing very well.” Crowley assured, “Everybody has a good side and a bad side, you should see my Iron-X on the right… absolutely dreadful.”

“I sincerely doubt that.” Aziraphale didn’t know what an Iron-X was, but if it was something Crowley had a hard time with then he was scared to find out.

The pole instructor left him with a smile and a pat on the back –since only Aziraphale had to complete the exercise between the two of them, they finished the exercise much earlier than the other two groups, and Crowley was free to roam between them while Aziraphale drank some water and towelled off some sweat.

He made a mental note to thank Anathema profusely for the advice of _‘bring a bottle of water and a towel, for the love of all that’s holy’_ ; and in the meantime he watched Anthony patiently explain things over to the beginner couple and then go back to the corner where his duffel was, to produce a pair of latex black gloves.

Apparently, one of the two very beginners had a problem with hand perspiration, which was very normal for people just starting pole, and very often a confidence thing more than an actual sweat thing, and the instructor told them it was perfectly fine to wear gloves for added grip if grip-aid wasn’t enough.

The slightly more fit couple seemed to be doing quite well, and Crowley only had to make small corrections like hand positioning and posture for them.

“Very last conditioning exercise before we get to the sexy stuff: pole tucks!”

Once again, the instructor brought himself to Aziraphale’s pole –which was front and center, after all– to demonstrate what that was. Hugging the pole close with one arm –heretofore to be considered the _‘inside arm’,_ as left and right were relative concepts in pole and aerial– he then placed his other hand slightly above it, keeping his whole side more or less flush with the metal pole, and then lifted his feet to tuck his knees to his chest.

“[This exercise](https://youtu.be/uL9GHxqsaJQ?t=25) is to build core and lower abdominal strength. If you feel particularly confident, you can try lifting your legs by keeping them straight, which puts more work on your lower abs and trains your active flexibility, too…” again, Aziraphale was baffled that the man could just converse calmly while he could barely even remember to breathe during the pull-ups, “Or, if instead you _don’t_ feel confident, don’t be afraid to tuck one leg to your chest first, then the other, then put one leg down, and then the other again. Any questions?”

One of the very beginners asked him to re-demonstrate and one of the slightly more advanced people asked how high the legs needed to go if lifting straight –which was, apparently, _‘as high as your body lets you take them’_ ; but after that Crowley simply stepped away from the pole and said:

“Alright! One set of five per each side, let’s see it!”

The different kind of grip, more snug and closer to the floor, made Aziraphale think he would be able to do this exercise with no problem, and yet he found himself struggling.

Crowley made his rounds among them, and when he sauntered to Aziraphale’s side the bookseller nearly jumped.

“Is everything okay?”

“Well, I—” Aziraphale took a moment to consider himself. “I can’t seem to stay pulled up long enough to complete the tuck.”

The instructor hummed pensively.

“Let’s see it?” he asked, nodding towards the pole.

Fighting back a blush at the scrutinising gaze, Aziraphale got into position and attempted to do the tucks again. It was a fast, clumsy thing, rather than the measured, four-second long movement it ought to have been.

Crowley just smiled and stepped closer to him.

“Ah, there’s your problem.” He said, “Is it okay to touch you to adjust you?”

In hindsight it was such obvious, basic decency, but to Aziraphale it spoke of someone considerate enough to be aware of others’ boundaries and make it a rule in their Studio to always take them into consideration.

“But of course.” He assured, “Please do.”

“Right, I’ll put my hands on your hips for a tic.” Crowley warned, and then positioned himself right in front of Aziraphale, “You’re struggling because you’re relying just on your arms –which you can do once you’re strong enough, but this type of grip is born with hip support in mind as well.”

He guided Aziraphale’s hips to be slightly in front of the pole and touching it, rather than being completely separate from it.

“You feel where the pole touches the back of your hipbone? That’s a point of contact.” Anthony explained, “When you lift, press into it; it’s there for a reason.”

The instructor stepped back, and yes, it was immensely easier to lift his legs off the floor now that his hands were not the only thing carrying his spine. Crowley, for his part, took a further step back and raised his voice for all the students:

“That’s actually a good point, thank you for enabling me to say this: points of contact!” he repeated, “If you end up coming back, which I hope you will, you’ll hear this phrase often. Points of contact are what keeps us against the pole each time, and they are _absolute_. The more points of contact you have, the steadier you will be. Three is usually enough for anyone to feel safe, two are okay for intermediate and advanced tricks, and then there’s the really crazy ones we won’t talk about today.”

That prompted a chuckle from everyone present.

“If you don’t understand how a point of contact works, don’t be afraid to ask.” Crowley emphasised, “The best way to master something is to understand how it’s happening, so please feel free to ask me the same question 17 times if that’s what it takes. I’d much rather spend a full hour hammering down a point than try to sell you pretty moves that will end up getting you hurt.”

That was a remarkable work ethic, especially considering how younger audiences might be put off by the idea of _‘not getting their money’s worth’_ if they didn’t get out of a class with at least four new tricks. It was all the more laudable that Crowley stuck by his principles.

Finally, after both the warm up and the conditioning, there came the time to learn their very first _pole tricks_. First and foremost was the so-called [Step Around](https://youtu.be/Pzkh-Y0ppe0?t=43), which was… well, exactly what one would expect. More or less.

“We’ll do it on our toes, because it looks nicer and it also prepares us for if or when we decide to do it in heels.” Crowley said, once again letting humor lighten up the atmosphere –not that it needed it, “We’ll take three tiny steps, inside leg, then outside, then inside leg again. Kick out the outside leg as far as it goes, keep the grip with your inside hand far above your head nice and tight, and start tilting forward chest-first.”

The point of Crowley’s toe described a perfect semi-circle around the pole, the rest of his body following suit in a beautiful shape, until he curled up slightly and put that foot on the ground.

“Here’s where you put your outside foot down, grab the pole with your outside hand if you feel like you need it, and complete the movement with your other foot. You can arc it out, or, if you wanna be a cheeky little shit, you can hook your knee to the pole and slide it up like a 50’ pin-up.”

Aziraphale surprised even himself when he found he was able to do this on his right side upon first try. Granted, it wasn’t at all impressive, but he had feared he’d be genuinely useless at this, so even though his left side had some coordination issues, he was still incommensurably pleased with himself at doing alright at the very basics.

Crowley showed a total of four tricks for the remainder of the class: the Step Around, the [Pirouette](https://youtu.be/2c7ggk2lGlY?t=213), the basic [Fireman Spin](https://youtu.be/9QVAmvf4SJ0?t=46) –which gave Aziraphale a run for his money but had the entire class chuckling about buff firemen, metal poles and the stereotypes around the whole thing– and lastly the [Front Hook Spin](https://youtu.be/-Z0VxWwb7UA?t=23), which Aziraphale took a special liking to, because it utilized leg strength and, he was delighted to find, he apparently had very strong legs, left over from his fencing years and cultivated by his long time lifting and carrying books for large amounts of time.

By the time class ended, Aziraphale felt exhausted, like he was probably going to be covered in bruises the following day, but also satisfied like he had very seldom been, high on the satisfaction of having done a _good job_ and absolutely enamoured with the friendly atmosphere that had him high-five and hug complete strangers.

He even joined in the chorus of _‘Yass, Queen!!!’_ when one of the very beginner girls who was struggling a lot with the Front Hook finally nailed the movement.

The only problem was, Anathema’s class wasn’t ending for another thirty minutes yet and Aziraphale did not feel like boarding the Northern line all alone.

Eric –that was the name of the lovely chap in reception, assured him he could just wait for his friend in the changing rooms, but Aziraphale still felt slightly weird about loitering in a room full of younger people, mostly women, in several states of dishabille; not knowing if any of them were going to feel uncomfortable about his presence.

He was mostly sure it was rather obvious he was about as gay as a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide, but he wasn’t quite ready to chance it yet; so he just happened to gravitate back towards Studio 3, where Crowley was dislodging poles from the floor with a small dolly type of lever that hooked against each pole and lifted lightly, allowing the man to dislodge the poles from their socket in the ceiling.

“Do you need any help?” he asked, expecting Crowley to hush him out of the room.

Instead, the pole instructor grunted under the effort of transporting the pole he was currently holding and extended his free arm out to Aziraphale.

“Actually, that’d be marvellous, yeah, if you can grab the lever and unhook the second one…” he said, leaning the now free pole into the far corner of the room and coming back to watch Aziraphale, presumably to ensure he didn’t damage the goods. “Just so, you can carry that to the corner and I’ll do the last one… thanks, angel.”

“You keep calling me that.” Aziraphale mentioned offhandedly, once they were done and Crowley just sat down on the wooden floor, “Why?”

The redhead shot him what was obviously a bemused look, even behind the glasses.

“Are you joking? You do know you’re the first ever beginner to offer to stay behind and help, do you?”

“W-well, I’m waiting for Anathema, you see, and I— I thought…”

“S’alright angel. I don’t know where you’re coming from, but in here you _don’t_ have to explain yourself for every little thing.”

Anthony probably meant it to be reassuring, and in one way it was, but it also hit Aziraphale square in the chest with unexpected warmth: his upbringing notwithstanding, he didn’t know how much he needed to hear those exact words until they left the pole dancer’s mouth.

Such a simple concept, and yet so much power behind it. The brutal, naked acceptance of someone who just met you.

God damn it all, he was _not_ going to burst into tears in front of the insanely attractive redhead.

“I…” he choked up a little, so he cleared his voice and tried again, “I wanted to thank you, Crowley.”

The other was busy inhaling his water in big gulps from his bottle, so it took him a second to ask:

“What for, angel?”

“Well… everything, really.” Aziraphale shrugged a bit helplessly as he spoke, “Being so patient with me in class… and at the event before. It occurs to me I was staggeringly rude, not using you the courtesy of complimenting your performance before badgering you with my questions—”

A knowing smile briefly stopped the bookseller in his tracks.

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” Crowley whispered, almost conspiratorially, despite them being alone in the classroom, “I’ve always loved questions. Big fan of questions, me. I always say you can never ask stupid questions.”

The easy banter and gentle looks made Aziraphale feel bolder than he normally was, so he found it in himself to carry on:

“And I also wanted to thank you for the amazing work you do. A week ago, I’d never have thought someone of my age and with my figure could ever feel confident or attractive, but you made me feel like that, today.”

Crowley audibly scoffed at that.

“There’s nothing wrong with your age _or_ your figure.” He said, a touch more aggressively than he might have done for a customer, “I didn’t give you confidence out of thin air, you know? I just showed you where you were hiding it and helped you pull it out.”

“Even so… I wanted you to know that I admire you terribly, and I look forward to learn more.”

That seemed to actually make the pole instructor bashful –ah, so it took brazen, unabashed praise to see a blush rise on those angular cheekbones. Aziraphale felt quite proud of himself for accomplishing that, despite the knowledge at the back of his head that Crowley was so monumentally out of his league.

Hoots, shouts and clapping echoed from Studio 2, which signified that _Splits, Stretch and Contortion_ was over; and Aziraphale bid goodbye to Crowley to go meet Anathema in the changing rooms.

Magda –or Dagon, depending on how hard she was making someone work, was a tall, very fit woman with long light brown hair and sharp eyes. According to Anathema, the lady was a drill-sergeant while on the clock, but she made it a point to respect safety regulations to a fault and kept on top of absolutely everything.

She looked the part even, standing perfectly straight with both hands clasped at her back as she reminded her students to practice and not neglect their stretches while waving goodbye at them.

Anathema met him halfway with a hug.

“Don’t hug me, I’m sweaty and gross—”

“That’s okay, we can be sweaty and gross together!” she countered, quite sensibly now that he thought about it, “So? How was class? Did you have fun? Are you going to come back for more?”

Aziraphale thought about it, biting his lower lip slightly.

What he told Crowley was true, he had been struggling recently with his self-image, though he knew that it was silly and it shouldn’t have bothered him –he was a man in his mid-forties, not a high-school teenager… and yet he hadn’t been able to help it, the feeling of dissatisfaction when he happened to catch himself in the mirror, thinking that it wasn’t surprising that he was still a bachelor, because who in their right mind would have ever wanted someone like him—

_There’s nothing wrong with your age **or** your figure._

Crowley’s words interrupted his train of thought. Thrown out there not like a compliment, but like a simple statement of fact. Aziraphale smiled to himself.

“You know what, dear girl?” he asked rhetorically, already feeling the excitement coming from his friend, “I’ve had tremendous fun, I’ll definitely be back for more.”

Not for the first time, he thought how apt the Studio’s name was.

He’d had a first bite, now he wanted the whole fruit.


	2. A quiet sense of belonging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took a couple weeks for Aziraphale to realize what the warmth in his chest was whenever he spent time with people from the Studio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who took like a month to update?  
> Yep. This person.
> 
> I am so uterly sorry, but almost just after posting chapter one, lockdown in UK hit and it was madness.  
> I'm among the lucky few who can work from home and have the privilege of still working full time and receiving my full salary, but it was... an adjustment to say the least.  
> Chapter two is shorter than I would have liked it, but it was as good a stopping point as any, so I just rolled with it.  
> Hopefully it won't take a freaking month for the next one.
> 
> Take my love <3

Aziraphale didn’t expect to like his pole classes as much as he did. Six weeks and as many classes in; he was already starting to get the basics of the climb. He tried his best to book on days when Crowley was teaching beginners, but it wasn’t always possible, since the Head Teacher was obviously very requested for advanced and elite training. His first meeting with Beatrice “Bee” Hardcastle was… definitely interesting.

Unlike Crowley, Bee was petite, 5 feet if even that, but she made up for what she lacked in height with sheer intensity, exuding authority with just a look.

 _“So you’re Crowley’s new starter, huh?”_ she had asked, with a look that was equal parts curious and knowing and that Aziraphale absolutely did not understand.

He had answered with a confused affirmative, and all she gave him in reply was a thoughtful hum, before putting everyone in the class through the proverbial grinder, as much as it was possible with a level one class.

When, just as they were leaving the class, Bee singled out Aziraphale to tell him he was _“not bad for a newbie”_ , the bookseller took it like a personal accomplishment, and vowed to tell Crowley about it on his next class.

It wasn’t until later that week, while he was out with Anathema to enjoy a well-deserved afternoon tea, that he came face to face with a startling fact.

“Oh and you know, while I was leaving the other day the door to Studio 1 was open and I saw Magda setting up silks…” he told her over a cuppa and a pastry, “And I’ve been thinking, oh, what if I go from once to twice a week? I would very much like to try one class with the silks; it seems so graceful and lovely…”

Anathema couldn’t contain her smile anymore.

“Hate to break it to you, Aziraphale, but I do believe that makes you a fully-fledged aerialist.”

“Aerialist? Me? I’m barely a beginner!”

“Skill level doesn’t count as much as you think.” She countered, starting to count off her fingers: “Do you regularly go to an aerial sports class? Check. Do you _gush_ about it to whoever will listen when you’re _not_ in class? Eh, kind of. Are you thinking of going to _more_ classes because the current ones are simply not enough anymore? Check.”

Aziraphale sputtered, torn between feeling indignant and flattered.

“Face it, Zira, amateur or not, you’re an aerialist.”

What a funny thought. The bumbling, fussy bookseller who no one would have looked twice at actually spent his evenings and sometimes weekends wiggling around a pole.

“Well, I… I suppose so, dear girl.”

It brought a small smile to Aziraphale’s lips— it reminded him that there was more to him than just his books and his old-fashioned style; that under the surface of the scholar there was a real, live person, with a beating heart and a passion. Sure he had discovered the craft very recently, but it felt marvellously liberating whenever he could pop over to the Studio, shed his everyday clothing and his everyday worries and just… _let go_. Whenever he was concentrating on the pole he was… not quite someone else, not quite himself… he wasn’t any particular way as much as he simply _was_.

Existing in synch with his breath, hearing nothing but the vibration of the music, the advice of the instructors, and feeling nothing but the pull of his muscles against the steel of the pole, daring him to go higher, to push harder, just to find out if he _could_.

It was cathartic, so much so that even on days when he was feeling down, that he wanted to do nothing but crawl under his covers with a book, he still dragged himself out to his booked class, and never once regretted it.

He would collect a new bruise each time and leave with soreness in places he didn’t think could feel sore, but he felt spiritually better, every single time.

Crowley called it _“hurting in the good way”_.

Aziraphale had half a mind to call it miraculous –but he already had one too many starry-eyed conversations about the beautiful instructor, if Anathema’s playful jabs were any indications.

“So… which class are you doing this week?”

The question felt oddly pointed, but the bookseller figured it was innocent enough.

“Oh, I’m going to Level 1 Pole Combos. Crowley suggested that doing some choreography might wrap my head around the technique more, so I wouldn’t waste quite as much strength trying to fit myself into positions that don’t— stop making that face, young lady!”

Anathema’s grin was far too wide for her to stop. To her credit, she did try.

“No, I think it’s great!” she cleared her voice slightly before continuing, “I have Conditioning just before that, you’ll see me out on the way in, with the rest of the Them.”

The Them, as they called themselves, were a group of teenage students that had been more or less adopted by the Studio teachers, but Crowley in particular –he apparently had a soft spot for kids, even though he vehemently denied it: someone in his line of work being too friendly with the little ones would cast all sorts of prejudice, despite what Aziraphale had seen and would be ready to swear on Crowley’s behalf.

The Head Instructor was both a father and a mother to his pupils, making sure they had proper meals, asking after their grades, sometimes even breaking up arguments. Warlock in particular adored Crowley, since he had helped them come to terms with a lot of things about themselves and even been there when their parents couldn’t or wouldn’t— Warlock hadn’t said, and Aziraphale was polite enough not to ask.

Pepper was the resident ‘tough girl’, though she resented the stereotype because _“the concept that a girl needs to be tough to be extraordinary is still a by-product of toxic masculinity”_ ; Wensleydale was instead the resident pole-nerd –thin and almost scrawny, he was the best of them in terms of technique and could cite literal physics equations that applied to pole dancing.

Then there was Brian, the tallest and more outwardly muscular of the group: always sweaty or grimy, always falling or bumping into things, but good-natured in a way that wouldn’t look out of place in a Dickensian novel and very protective of their ‘leader’, Adam.

Adam, just like Warlock, seemed to have an almost filial affection to Crowley, who called him _hellspawn_ despite clearly returning said affection. Aziraphale didn’t quite understand whether Adam and Brian were actually an item or just ‘experimenting’, as the youngsters said these days, but it was absolutely precious to watch them bicker like newlyweds.

Not for the first time, Aziraphale thought of the many people of all kinds and ages that he had met through Aerial Eden Dance Studio; and that he never would have known otherwise.

Some of the Studio’s pupils ended up coming to his bookshop as well –sometimes adults looking for unusual books, sometimes just the Them and other teens looking for a quiet place to study or a safe space to just _be_.

(It was heart-warming to see how easily people in the LGBT community could come together, and word got out easily that the dusty old bookshop in _Soho_ was a safe haven for the different and anyone who felt vulnerable and distressed.)

Come to think of it, it was lucky that Aziraphale made the majority of his profit with restoration work, rather than actual sales –it allowed him to keep convenient hours and set his own prices, especially for precision work on rare tomes that would _disintegrate_ in the wrong hands.

“Hello? Zira?”

Anathema had to wave her hand in front of his face a little to get him to snap out of his reverie.

“Oh! Dreadfully sorry, my dear, I must have spaced out a little.”

“Thinking of a certain someone?”

“Anathema, please! I’m too old for that kind of crush!”

She chuckled behind a hand and sent a playful jab at him:

“Nope! Not hearing it. Not too old for pole, not too old for love!”

“Cheek!” he protested, but didn’t deny it.

He and Crowley got on like a house on fire, it was impossible not to tell. With many Level 1 classes taking place just before closing time, it was easy for Aziraphale to lag behind and start a conversation, usually offering help whenever he saw the instructor having to close up by himself –he knew the struggle only too well. After the first couple of times, Aziraphale even got the full story on the sunglasses, with Crowley grumbling that one of the _wonders_ of being a pasty pale ginger is that a few unlucky ones get _“shite eyes that don’t do well with fluorescent dance studio lights, or light in general”_. It was apparently easier to just wear shades all the time and save himself the migraine; and the bookseller had to admit it made sense.

Five minutes more in the studio turned to fifteen in the changing rooms, then a few more moments up the stairs, until the first time Crowley absently offered him a lift home.

Aziraphale wasn’t a particularly avid fan of classic cars, but that Bentley was a beauty, even though his first comment was _“maintenance for this vehicle must be a bitch and a half”_ to which Crowley tossed his head back in laughter, before uttering an almost enamoured _“worth it”_ and patting the car’s bonnet lovingly.

That night, Aziraphale thought he could die happy if Crowley looked at him like he looked at his car, even just once.

Friday evening came, and it was time to try his hand at choreography.

Crowley was beautiful as ever, hair tied up in its messy bun, black shirt with the Studio’s logo on the front in red and, of course, the skimpy little shorts that made Aziraphale lose his goddamn mind: the tattooed Serpent’s tongue on Crowley’s thigh disappeared just under their hem and Aziraphale wished dearly he could follow it. The ensemble was made all the more alluring by thigh-high black stockings.

One could say a lot about Anthony Crowley, but _man_ did he work the androgynous look effortlessly.

“Alright everyone, settle in!” the instructor called, clapping his hands to signal the start of the class, “This week’s [combo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JCjpGZTwyzg) is not long, and we’re going to break it into five pieces we can separate…”

It was a 10-people class and nearly a full house tonight, so Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t get a lot of one-on-one time, but that just meant Aziraphale was doing well and needed less supervision, except for when he had to transition from one move to the other.

“You’re thinking too much, angel.” Crowley remarked, as he steadied his hands’ position on the pole –he kept asking for permission for the first few lessons, but by know they had a good enough chemistry that a look and a nod was all that was needed, “Let yourself feel the transition. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Get your timing correct first, and then you can polish it.”

“Sorry, I just feel a bit… silly…”

“Is this the part where you say something very stupid about yourself and I get to prove you wrong?”

To anyone who didn’t know the performer, it would have sounded cruel, but it ripped an affectionate smile from Aziraphale.

“Really, my dear, I just… you make it look easy, graceful thing you are, but I’m… you know…” he paused, because he knew Crowley was going to object, “I’m not… all that to look at, I must look ridiculous!”

Instead of trying to argue, Crowley asked Aziraphale a question that stopped him in his tracks:

“To whom?”

“Beg pardon?”

“It’s a simple question, angel.” Crowley insisted, “You said you think you’ll _look ridiculous_ , but to whom? The other students? I can assure you, they’re all rather taken with not falling over themselves and breaking something. To me? I’m also very much concerned for your safety rather than your aesthetic.”

The instructor’s voice then softened.

“So the only person left is yourself. And I think you should give yourself some slack.”

Aziraphale was about to rebuff him, but got distracted when Crowley took off his top.

“I, uh…”

“Everyone! Find a partner to spot you; we’re going to do a trust exercise.”

Aziraphale wondered how many of the students could link Crowley’s sudden bouts of inspirations with their discussions –he hoped the resulting exercises wouldn’t be too hard.

Crowley went on to explain that those in the room who felt the most self-conscious would go first: the exercise consisted in one person performing the combo blindfolded, with the spotter leading and protecting the dancer from falls.

The goal was for the dancer to keep contact with the pole as much as possible –since they didn’t have their eyes to gauge position– and to never stop, even if they couldn’t see whether they performed each move correctly or not.

Aziraphale didn’t think it would make that much of a difference, until Crowley blindfolded him with his shirt— it was surprisingly easy to let go of his tighter inhibitions once he was lulled in the comfort of darkness and the pleasant scent of the instructor’s cologne.

He couldn’t see himself, but he _felt_ himself move along with the music. Surely his form was a far cry from perfect, but with no visuals he only had touch and sound to worry about, and he kept moving along with the song’s beat, even when he couldn’t do a move and just settled for a Step Around and a body wave.

“ _Much_ better.” Crowley praised as he came back from his circuit around the room. “See? You’re a bona fide sex god, angel.”

Aziraphale promptly froze mid-body roll.

“Oh—well, I— I wouldn’t say—”

“Stop trying to find reasons why you would be unworthy of a compliment.” The instructor whispered as he got close in order to remove the makeshift blindfold, “You’re allowed to feel attractive. Let yourself have it.”

Holding his breath did very little for Aziraphale in terms of not letting his mind run away with thoughts of how alluring Crowley’s voice was, so up close and low, but at least he managed to shove his fantasies into a box, not to be opened until he was in the secluded confines of his apartment later that night.

Much, much later.

The exercise was repeated with the spotters turning into dancers, but Crowley didn’t make Aziraphale do the combo twice –instead, he asked the bookseller to be his impromptu assistant in making some rounds. However little he had practiced this new discipline, he discovered the body had a way of remembering certain things, and his upper body strength was returning in spades. Enough that Crowley trusted him to catch a student if they gave signs of falling down the pole.

It never happened so far, but Aziraphale felt honoured by that trust.

Eventually, all blindfolds came off and they repeated the routine –Crowley demonstrated again it twice, once with a more delicate and feminine flair, and once with a snappier and more traditionally masculine style.

“It’s a load of bollocks if you ask me, everyone should dance the way they prefer, but the options are there, and my job is to let you know all of them.”

Smiling to himself, Aziraphale remarked to himself that Anthony Crowley was an absolute icon of a person.

By the end, everyone was sweaty, tired, and absolutely giddy.

While everyone went out to change, Aziraphale stayed behind to help Crowley close up –the receptionist had already left and it was quarter to eleven pm; he felt it was his duty to make sure the instructor left at least before midnight.

They dismounted the poles while having their usual friendly banter.

“Oh please, allow me—” Aziraphale even offered to take down the last one himself, so Crowley could get started on disconnecting the sound system.

“Thanks, angel. Where would I be without you?”

In the sudden quiet of the dimly lit Studio, it sounded softer than it needed to be.

“You’ve managed well enough before we met…” the bookseller joked, chancing a look at the other and stopping short: he hadn’t meant to stare at Crowley’s well-defined back as the other put his shirt back on, but he did; and it made him notice the scar. “What— what do you say to a late night treat? There’s a bakery just down from the station that’s open until late and they make an absolutely divine—”

His admittedly impressive save was interrupted when the pole dancer turned with a chuckle.

“It’s okay, Aziraphale. You can ask.”

Oh, what Aziraphale wouldn’t have done for that look.

“I don’t know if I should.” But he wanted to. And Crowley clearly could somehow sense it, because he started speaking as he undid his bun and shook his hair out.

“I was a gymnastics kid.” He said, “Started little, competed all the way through high-school, mum’s little golden boy. The high bar was my favourite, felt like I could fly.”

Aziraphale could see where that was going, and closed his eyes with a pained expression at the pole dancer’s next words:

“And then I _fell_.” Four small words, but with so much weight behind them, it nearly took the breath from him. “I was 22. It wasn’t a particularly high fall, but I landed in a shit position and broke my shoulder in two places. I think it even made the local news back then. Bright young thing in uni, yadda yadda, promising career over. Just like that. After all, the Olympics don’t wait for the broken and the fallen.” Many athletes got injured before, during or after competitions, but those who got hurt bad enough could never quite compete at the same level. Crowley had been one of them –already ‘too old’ to be worth a damn after the long sabbatical it would take him to recover.

Fortunately, the pole dancer’s eyes only darkened for a moment before he continued.

“So I decided, fuck the _select few_ , I’ll take my chances as one of the lost and imperfect. I started physio as soon as I could. It took me two years and a half to make a full recovery, but by then I had already found an aerial instructor and started with the yoga. Eventually opened my own place, and I opened it for _everyone_.” Crowley’s already honey-speckled eyes glowed almost gold with his fierceness, “No one gets turned away here.”

“Oh, Crowley…” Aziraphale felt his voice tremble, but didn’t quite register the slight heaviness in his eyes, “That is truly extraordinary. You’re such a remarkable individual, I…”

The performer fixed a slightly worried gaze on him.

“Are you alright?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

This time, Crowley bit his lips and reached out with one hand, wiping a tear from Aziraphale’s cheek.

“You’re crying, angel.”

“O-oh… I’m sorry, my dear, it’s just…” it was a bit of a problem for Aziraphale. He _felt_ deeply for others, being… not quite an empath, but up there somewhere. “I cannot even imagine what you went through, and you’re so strong and resilient, and—”

“It’s okay, angel.” Crowley assured him, “It was a long time ago, really. I don’t deserve your tears.”

What a sweet thing to say it was. The bookseller rubbed at his own eyes and tried to put himself together.

“Look at me, blubbering like an old silly while you’ve already been through so much.”

“Oh yeah, positively dreadful, that.” The other drawled, clearly teasing him. “How about you make it up to me by showing me that bakery you were talking about? Then you can tell me _your_ dirty little secret about why you quit fencing as a boy.”

“It’s not very exciting at all…” not that a tragic accident was something Aziraphale could call ‘exciting’, but he had always considered himself a rather dull character, especially compared to someone so much more outwardly expressive.

“Nonsense, I bet it’s riveting.”

Aziraphale chuckled, but it ended in a sigh.

“It really isn’t.”

And yet he told the story all the same, once they were seated side by side in a quiet corner with croissants and hot beverages:

“So… Cambridge in the 90s. Bookish uni student somehow winds up ‘friends’ with a clique of elitist knobs, gets lowkey bullied via emotional manipulation and backhanded statements about his size/weight, finds one sport that he actually feels comfortable practicing but abandons it in the end after someone circulated a picture of him in fencing clothes with the caption _‘Fat D’Artagnan on the loose. Lure in with crepes’_ all around campus.”

“Wow. What a bunch of wankers.”

The absolutely enraged expression on Crowley’s face was a surprise, the hug that came after it even more so.

“Crowley… it’s okay, you don’t have to—”

“It’s _not_ okay.” The pole dancer’s voice interrupted Aziraphale’s slightly breathless reaction even muffled as it was by Crowley almost hiding his face in the bookseller’s neck. “I’m gonna make a few guesses and say it wasn’t the first time someone did something like that to you, that you had been bullied earlier in childhood as well, and that you endured silently and with grace until you could just remove yourself from their presence, rather than cause a big scene about it.”

“You’re… very observant.”

It was, apparently, the wrong thing to say, as Crowley just hugged him tighter.

“Yeah, well. I’m observant enough to know that was _not_ normal, what was said and done to you was inexcusable and _none_ of it ever was your fault. And it doesn’t say anything about what you are or your worth as a person either.”

Aziraphale knew that, of course. He realised it over the decades, he was most definitely not a fragile young thing anymore, but it felt immensely validating to have an outsider voice telling him that. He hugged Crowley back at the waist and closed his eyes, only slightly holding back tears.

“Thank you, my dear.”

That seemed to make Crowley remember where they were, and he broke the embrace somewhat awkwardly.

“Sorry.” He said, “Probably should have asked.”

“Not at all, my dear, I actually quite needed that.”

Surprisingly, the pole instructor ducked his head somewhat shyly.

“It’s just, you know… when you do what I do, you become a tactile person, it’s how I express…” there was a brief moment where Crowley seemed to start, stop himself and retry in aborted syllables, as if he were looking for the right words, “…things.”

That was a less elaborate landing than the preamble gave the impression for. It made Aziraphale chuckle –Crowley was, by his own admission, not particularly eloquent, and he’d come to know that the Them often recorded what they called _disconnected Crowley noises_ , that he made during lessons whenever his mind would get stuck on a concept without the exact words to explain it. It was absolutely endearing.

Over time, Aziraphale noticed very little changes. He was still the same middle aged, slightly stuffy Soho bookseller; he just had a slightly wider circle of friends and didn’t get out of breath anymore while walking up his stairs or running after the 19 bus to catch it.

He didn’t see his silhouette change shape significantly when he looked at himself in the mirror, but he was okay with that. A small change _was_ there, though it made him look bigger, if anything: instead of resembling a squishy and slightly pudgy teddy bear, he now had more definition in his shoulders and upper arms -so much so that he wouldn’t look out of place in a log-tossing contest- and underneath the soft padding around his belly he could feel hardened muscle. 

Crowley also mentioned to him that a little bit of pudge was even an advantage at their age: fat tissue protected the spine when lifting heavy loads, preventing compression between the vertebrae and avoiding long-term pains… which was quite important when someone lifted their own entire body weight.

For the first time in a long time, Aziraphale looked at himself and felt satisfaction at his reflection, rather than grudging acceptance. He felt comfortable, he felt _right_ … attractive, even, when he let himself think it.

Anathema bought him a sleeveless top to wear during pole practice, light grey with navy blue writing saying _‘I flexed too hard and my sleeves fell off’_. It was a hit at the Studio, even Magda cracked a smile when they stopped to chat about him possibly taking a few beginner silk classes.

The day after, Bee promptly attempted one-upping him with a black tank-top with _‘sun’s out guns out’_ printed in red on it; and it sparked a chain reaction that turned into a sort of ‘event’ over the Aerial Eden instagram page, asking people to wear their sillies or funniest outfit and tag the Studio in the pictures.

It still took a couple weeks for Aziraphale to realize what the warmth in his chest was whenever he spent time with people from the Studio –whether there or at his bookshop.

The feeling of _belonging_ somewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, about the log-tossing thing:
> 
> It's a legit sport in UK, mainly Scotland but all over in the country, and [this](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/d0/fb/11/d0fb111203bc3998965c3b83754514b0.jpg) is what the body of a log tosser looks like.  
> It's function above aesthetic. It's not the clearest image, but it's still plenty visible that the gentleman depicted has quite the wide belly despite obviously being fit enough to lift what basically amounts to a TREE.  
> The amount of body fat around his core is there because that way he won't get hernia after throuwing logs around like they were sticks to play fetch with. It protects the spine, keeps him from snapping in half under the weight, cushions some of the stress of the lifting.  
> Now, you don't *have* to have that physique in order to be strong, a person's natural build makes everyone different, and dancers usually tend to be on the slighter side due to all the cardio they do prancing all over the place but.  
>  **One body type does not exclude the other.**  
>  Think UFC fighters as well. Some of those people can be quite big, and yet they're agile and fast. Just like a dancer.


End file.
